The other day I got talking with friends about the state’s sex offender registry, the online listing of people convicted of a sex crime. Some folks think it’s an indispensable tool for keeping neighborhoods safe, others consider it a violation of the offender’s civil liberties.
Personally – as is the case with abortion, evolution, creationism, politics and gun control – I think exactly what you think, so let’s keep those letters friendly, folks.
My only real concern is that the registry doesn’t list the nature of the crimes committed. The child molester is listed right alongside the guy who had the misfortune to get caught relieving himself behind a bar at closing time. These two crimes, I feel, are not the same.
But maybe I only feel that way because of something that happened to me over 30 years ago.
It was Easter vacation, and I was hiking the Bruce Trail, a rugged tract of land that begins in Queenston, Ontario and follows the Niagara Escarpment for hundreds of miles. As was often the case in those days, I was hiking alone, unmindful of bears, skunks, potential broken legs. I was young and indestructible. Nothing bad would happen to me.
This early in the year, the trail was all but deserted. I’d been hiking for three days and had not seen another living soul. My mind was in that Zen-like, tranquil place that comes only with extended periods of solitude or large quantities of good beer.
The only sounds were those of the wind shushing through the treetops and the gentle, steady susurration of Lake Huron marking its timeless rhythm against the cliffs below. I was alone in the world, an island of humanity in a vast, untrammeled wilderness.
God was in his Heaven, and all manner of things were right with the world.
Even the weather was perfect; unseasonably warm temperatures had followed me every step of the way. It was springtime in Eden, Shangri-la, Valhalla … faultless.
The only flaw in all nature’s Grand Design was, well, me. Rather, the way I smelled. After several days hiking without benefit of soap and water, I stank. Bad. Real bad. The kind of bad usually associated with the spitting, burping, unwashed, foul-mouthed, drunken cowboy who gets killed early on by the Indians in every western made since “Dances With Wolves.”
I wasn’t spitting or swearing, but I did stink to high heaven.
That’s probably why the waterfall looked so inviting. It was a picturesque, storybook waterfall, cascading 50 feet down a tiered wall of rock and collecting in a small pool before continuing on its winding way to Lake Huron.
A heavy layer of green loam surrounded the falls, like the softest carpet imaginable. Sunlight slanted in through the treetops, dappling the scene in a diffused, golden glow.
Backpack and clothing in a pile, soap in hand, I ventured into the frigid water. Making quick work of the process, I managed to scrub away most of the trail grime before dashing back to my pack and toweling off.
I spread the towel on the loam and lay there, letting the sun finish the drying process, wearing only the clothes I was born in. The sun warmed my puckered skin. Honeybees buzzed lazily nearby. The waves continued to roll gently against the beach. I breathed in. I breathed out. Time passed.
Something was nudging my left foot.
“I think he’s alive,” a voice said.
I opened my eyes. I was looking at a young guy about my age, standing over me, concern beetling his brows.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“Yeah … sure,” I said, sleepily pushing myself into a sitting position.
A middle-aged woman walked up. She was fit, grey-haired, wearing a backpack and Vibram-soled boots.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. The young guy was also smiling.
I was missing something, but couldn’t quite put my finger on what it might be. Then it came to me. I grabbed the towel and gathered it around me, covering what I could as fast as I could.
The woman turned her head long enough to allow me to climb back into my jeans and sweatshirt. Turns out she was a professor at Michigan State University, backpacking with her son. We wound up cooking and eating a lunch together, sharing stories of trails we’d hiked and places we’d seen.
Then we said goodbye, the prof and her son heading north, I south.
That was the last time I showered outdoors, so don’t bother looking for me on the registry.
To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or incriminating stories of your own, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://realitycheck.shoutpost.com.
Personally – as is the case with abortion, evolution, creationism, politics and gun control – I think exactly what you think, so let’s keep those letters friendly, folks.
My only real concern is that the registry doesn’t list the nature of the crimes committed. The child molester is listed right alongside the guy who had the misfortune to get caught relieving himself behind a bar at closing time. These two crimes, I feel, are not the same.
But maybe I only feel that way because of something that happened to me over 30 years ago.
It was Easter vacation, and I was hiking the Bruce Trail, a rugged tract of land that begins in Queenston, Ontario and follows the Niagara Escarpment for hundreds of miles. As was often the case in those days, I was hiking alone, unmindful of bears, skunks, potential broken legs. I was young and indestructible. Nothing bad would happen to me.
This early in the year, the trail was all but deserted. I’d been hiking for three days and had not seen another living soul. My mind was in that Zen-like, tranquil place that comes only with extended periods of solitude or large quantities of good beer.
The only sounds were those of the wind shushing through the treetops and the gentle, steady susurration of Lake Huron marking its timeless rhythm against the cliffs below. I was alone in the world, an island of humanity in a vast, untrammeled wilderness.
God was in his Heaven, and all manner of things were right with the world.
Even the weather was perfect; unseasonably warm temperatures had followed me every step of the way. It was springtime in Eden, Shangri-la, Valhalla … faultless.
The only flaw in all nature’s Grand Design was, well, me. Rather, the way I smelled. After several days hiking without benefit of soap and water, I stank. Bad. Real bad. The kind of bad usually associated with the spitting, burping, unwashed, foul-mouthed, drunken cowboy who gets killed early on by the Indians in every western made since “Dances With Wolves.”
I wasn’t spitting or swearing, but I did stink to high heaven.
That’s probably why the waterfall looked so inviting. It was a picturesque, storybook waterfall, cascading 50 feet down a tiered wall of rock and collecting in a small pool before continuing on its winding way to Lake Huron.
A heavy layer of green loam surrounded the falls, like the softest carpet imaginable. Sunlight slanted in through the treetops, dappling the scene in a diffused, golden glow.
Backpack and clothing in a pile, soap in hand, I ventured into the frigid water. Making quick work of the process, I managed to scrub away most of the trail grime before dashing back to my pack and toweling off.
I spread the towel on the loam and lay there, letting the sun finish the drying process, wearing only the clothes I was born in. The sun warmed my puckered skin. Honeybees buzzed lazily nearby. The waves continued to roll gently against the beach. I breathed in. I breathed out. Time passed.
Something was nudging my left foot.
“I think he’s alive,” a voice said.
I opened my eyes. I was looking at a young guy about my age, standing over me, concern beetling his brows.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“Yeah … sure,” I said, sleepily pushing myself into a sitting position.
A middle-aged woman walked up. She was fit, grey-haired, wearing a backpack and Vibram-soled boots.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said, smiling. The young guy was also smiling.
I was missing something, but couldn’t quite put my finger on what it might be. Then it came to me. I grabbed the towel and gathered it around me, covering what I could as fast as I could.
The woman turned her head long enough to allow me to climb back into my jeans and sweatshirt. Turns out she was a professor at Michigan State University, backpacking with her son. We wound up cooking and eating a lunch together, sharing stories of trails we’d hiked and places we’d seen.
Then we said goodbye, the prof and her son heading north, I south.
That was the last time I showered outdoors, so don’t bother looking for me on the registry.
To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or incriminating stories of your own, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://realitycheck.shoutpost.com.
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